of those titles occur to him. Even when he was not
thinking of the little phrase, it existed, latent, in his mind, in the
same way as certain other conceptions without material equivalent, such
as our notions of light, of sound, of perspective, of bodily desire, the
rich possessions wherewith our inner temple is diversified and adorned.
Perhaps we shall lose them, perhaps they will be obliterated, if we
return to nothing in the dust. But so long as we are alive, we can no
more bring ourselves to a state in which we shall not have known
them than we can with regard to any material object, than we can, for
example, doubt the luminosity of a lamp that has just been lighted, in
view of the changed aspect of everything in the room, from which has
vanished even the memory of the darkness. In that way Vinteuil's phrase,
like some theme, say, in _Tristan_, which represents to us also a
certain acquisition of sentiment, has espoused our mortal state, had
endued a vesture of humanity that was affecting enough. Its destiny was
linked, for the future, with that of the human soul, of which it was one
of the special, the most distinctive ornaments. Perhaps it is not-being
that is the true state, and all our dream of life is without existence;
but, if so, we feel that it must be that these phrases of music, these
conceptions which exist in relation to our dream, are nothing either.
We shall perish, but we have for our hostages these divine captives who
shall follow and share our fate. And death in their company is something
less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps even less certain.

So Swann was not mistaken in believing that the phrase of the sonata
did, really, exist. Human as it was from this point of view, it
belonged, none the less, to an order of supernatural creatures whom we
have never seen, but whom, in spite of that, we recognise and acclaim
with rapture when some explorer of the unseen contrives to coax one
forth, to bring it down from that divine world to which he has access
to shine for a brief moment in the firmament of ours. This was what
Vinteuil had done for the little phrase. Swann felt that the composer
had been content (with the musical instruments at his disposal) to
draw aside its veil, to make it visible, following and respecting its
outlines with a hand so loving, so prudent, so delicate and so sure,
that the sound altered at every moment, blunting itself to indicate a
shadow, springing back into life when it mus